On the Menu
by kingmaker
Summary: While teaching himself the art of pipe smoking, Grima discovers the circumstances under which meat is not on the Uruk's menu.


(A/N: Time for more playing around with curiosities of movieverse. The characters belong to Tolkien, I'm making no money from this, and the following remarks from the Production/Post-Production commentary on the TTT:EE regarding the line "Looks like meat's back on the menu, boys!" is all you need to know about where this came from.)

Christian Rivers: _My only issue is that for an Uruk-hai to say that would suggest he lives in a society where a) he has a menu and b) that menu is selective enough to have food taken off it and put back on again._  
Rick Porras: _In other words implying a certain level of not just sophistication but culture._

On the Menu

Gríma son of Gálmód choked back a cough as he tasted the Longbottom Leaf. Despite his master's profuse praise, he could not taste the difference between this vintage and the one he had been given on his last visit. Come to that, he was only vaguely aware of the fact that this tasted better than the grasses he had been smoking back at Edoras in an attempt to reduce his coughing so he would not offend Saruman. Admittedly, the smoke had added to the air of distasteful decay that he so carefully cultivated about his person because it inspired fear in the men and so clouded the King's mind when he was in his advisory role that Théoden would pretty much accept any idea he put forward just to get him out of olfactory range. And that benefit of smoking excluded the incident wherein he had singed off his eyebrows after a rabbit had run across his path, scaring the fool out of him and causing him to inadvertently introduce the smoking blades in his hand to his forehead. The irony, of course, was that after he had taken the charred remnants off with his razor, everyone could tell that something was wrong with his face but no one could identify it and it only creeped them out further, so he had taken to shaving his eyebrows to preserve that curious appearance. It had not made him any fonder of the actual smoking, however. Hence the reason he was walking outside. When he had first started reporting to Saruman, Isengard was filled with pleasant breezes that would have dissipated the stench, but now every hole in the ground spewed forth hot industrial steam, which did replace the pipeweed smoke but left nothing enjoyable in its wake.

He shook his head. The things he suffered in the service of Saruman. He decided to take a moment to remember why he was doing so, briefly allowing himself to indulge in a rapturous, transcendent, reaction-inducing fantasy of Éowyn. Luckily, he managed to catch himself before too many of the orcs began looking at him oddly and with just a touch of fear. Nonetheless, the ghost of his vision played at the edge of his consciousness where the pipeweed had affected it, and as he took another puff, in case Saruman looked out a window and saw him, he concluded that he needed to find something less dangerous to distract him. He decided to check on the progress of the Uruks, because Saruman had said the first force of them would be going abroad soon.

Gríma had looked in on them every time he had come to Isengard to report on politics in Edoras and troop movements across Rohan. At one point, he thought he would need clever excuses to hide the real purpose of his journeys north, but he soon discovered that none of those simpletons had noticed the pattern. His grandmother had died for the third time in nine months to free him up for this visit. Háma had even left him a condolence present (one of his so-called lucky horseshoes) every time, the idiot. Every time he came, Gríma made a point of seeing how Saruman's new army was developing. He likened it to watching one's children grow up, though he obviously had no personal point of reference (unless one were to count Haleth, nominal son of Háma…)

The development of the Uruk-hai was quite interesting, to be sure. Saruman, ever since he had decided to throw in his lot with Sauron, had been suffering from what might be called a Minion Inferiority Complex. He lacked the huge numbers of his ally, the cultured military sophistication of the elves, and the uniformity of men. From early on, he had planned to rectify all of these things by breeding his own army and forging his own armor. He had already achieved the goal of uniformity, at least in contrast to the wildly varying orcs who served the Eye, and was well on his way to commanding a large enough army to make the White Hand feared throughout Middle-earth. It was in the culture department that the Uruks were lacking and, military training requiring what time it did, it was unlikely that Saruman would be able to rectify that fault before sending them in pursuit of the Ring.

So Gríma was quite surprised to see, in a large chamber adjoining the main training cavern, an inexplicable set-up of circular tables, each with four Uruks on crude but recognizable stools seated around it. Each table had a red and white checkered table cloth covering it and an irregularly-shaped candle of indeterminate substance in the middle, while orcs bearing trays moved among the tables. He pulled the pipe from his mouth and stared at it in disbelief. It had never affected his mind to the point of complete hallucination before. Maybe this was how Longbottom Leaf was better, though he wondered why Saruman would think Uruks sitting at tables were an upgrade from the reality of Uruks learning weapons technique. Maybe Saruman got images of some long-ago girlfriend in her unmentionables. Or maybe Gríma just was not using the proper technique.

He tried to take a deeper breath but immediately doubled over coughing. He imagined that such violent motion might have cleared his head, but no, the Uruks were still sitting at their tables, though some were looking at him with an expression that might have been concern. The only other change was that Saruman, his pipe in his hand and an expression of clever serenity on his face, had joined his spy. "I hoped you would find your way down here. It is brilliant, is it not?" Gríma, who had never learned to guard his thoughts from anyone but Théoden, must have looked puzzled, because Saruman shook his head at the spy's cluelessness and continued. "Welcome to the Angrenost Café! Here the child-like mind of the fighting Uruk-Hai learns to cultivate the finer qualities of genteel culture by selecting his meal and eating in a calm, orderly manner." From what Gríma could see, the latter did not describe the way the Uruks were ripping into their food with their hands and teeth. It took him a minute to realize that this was merely Saruman's attempt, pitiful and unsuccessful though it was, to bring his Uruks up to the level of elves. He could not help himself. He laughed.

Saruman glared at him. Gríma never laughed at Saruman, and he quickly realized that he had to be careful. "I'm sorry, sir," he said as he regained control. "It must be the pipeweed." With an inward cringe, he added, "It is rather good, sir." Saruman was still looking at him curiously. Gríma turned back to the Uruks, wondering what he could say to end the awkward moment. He decided it would be interesting to hear how the wizard rationalized this bizarre change from the older method of simply handing the Uruk a chunk of meat and letting him go off and eat it. "Why?"

"I just thought it would be a good idea. The menu is actually something of a puzzle to stimulate their brains." He lowered his voice so it was less audible to the diners, although they all seemed too intent on their food to bother listening to him. "You know how our animal breeding has fallen behind the pace of our Uruk breeding? It was becoming apparent that we would have to feed them meat every other day for awhile, but how can a man, even an old one with flesh as thin and pale as this, tell a bunch of Uruk-hai that they will be eating less and will just have to 'deal with it?' So I made it a game: each one can only have meat three times a week, but they get to decide when those are. Some days, like today, the meat is specified on the menu, pig in this case. Some days, it is an unspecified mystery meat, which might be a treat like horse, a common meat, or all the orcs that have lately died, since we have to get rid of them somehow and the Uruks either do not notice or do not care. Some days, there is no meat on the menu, and everyone just gets bread or vegetables. So it forces them to balance immediate certainties with potentially greater delayed gratification and make choices requiring thought, all while allowing us to manage our less than unlimited food resources."

Gríma looked at Saruman skeptically. The wizard continued, "Plus they will learn the proper manner of eating in a polite society." Gríma could not help but laugh. The Longbottom Leaf really was making him feel looser, especially with his tongue. "Face it, sir, Uruks may be able to kick elvish posterior, but they will never be able to match them in wine snobbery. It looks like all they have learned to do here is sit still on a stool and order from a menu and, honestly, how is that going to help us win the war?"

Saruman hesitated before coming up with an answer that worked, at least in his head. "Well, if I ever send one to spy in Gondor, he will be able to eat in a tavern without arousing much suspicion." Gríma resisted the urge to point out that an Uruk, between his skin color and stature, would be conspicuous even if he ate and drank with the manners of the King. Wait. He's a ranger. Cancel that. The manners of the Steward. Wait. Have you seen that man eat? Cancel that. The manners of Lord Elrond. In which case he would be conspicuous for acting like an elf. The author decided that he could not win with this analogy and moved on.

Though entirely skeptical of his master's intentions and, indeed, his sanity, Gríma decided not to comment further and instead changed the subject entirely, beginning to inform Saruman of the latest pattern of patrols in the Westfold.

That night, in the privacy of the small sleeping chamber he used during his visits to Orthanc, Gríma stretched out, more relaxed than he had been in a long time. Longbottom Leaf was, he had come to the conclusion, particularly excellent shit.

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At the Oasis in South Ithilien, a tavern known for its diverse clientele and excellent mixed drinks, generations of bartenders have passed down many grand, humorous, and unbelievable tales about its various celebrated customers and the incidents surrounding them. In the summer of T.A. 3019, a new story was added of an Uruk who came in, sat down, politely ordered a roast chicken, ate it, and then trashed half the bar fighting with an off-duty soldier who was looking at the Uruk funny. For obvious reasons, it is the latter part of the story that the patrons find most credible.


End file.
